Page 25 of Lobanov Bratva Obsession
The words had left my mouth before I remembered how she tended to react to any term that looked like a threat to her autonomy.
She finally looked at me, those ice-blue eyes narrowing. “I am not an asset. I am a complainant in a high-profile racketeering case. You would do well to remember the difference.”
Her tone was cool, way cooler than I was expecting.
“In this house, the difference is negligible,” I replied.
I left her to her ledgers, but the weight of the coming war followed me down to the grand dining room. My brothers and our most trusted allies were already there, the air thick with the scent of dark coffee and the ozone of a converging storm. Viktor sat at the head of the table, his expression unreadable, while Roman and Konstantin reviewed a map of the city’s docks.
The fallout of Elena’s lawsuit was becoming a tidal wave.
“Multiple factions are moving simultaneously,” Konstantin growled, tossing a burner phone onto the table. “Some people are liquidating their Bronx holdings, but we’re also seeing movement from the Italians and the Irish. They’re sensing a vacuum.”
It was becoming clear that the series-long threats we had navigated—the fractured alliances, the silent coups—were all converging toward a final confrontation. Elena had poked the hive, and now the wasps were swarming.
“She’s exposed the entire infrastructure,” Roman added, his strategic mind already calculating the casualties. “If we don’tmove now, the feds will do our job for us, and they won’t be as surgical.”
I listened to them debate the logistics of the purge, but my mind remained on the woman upstairs. I realized then, with a cold finality, that I would not allow her to walk away after this was over. Not because she was weak—she was perhaps the strongest woman I had ever met—but because the world she had dragged into the light would never forgive her for her independence. If I let her go, she would be hunted until the day she died. The only way she survived was by staying in the shadow of my name.
I would cage her, yes. But I would cage her in a fortress that no one else could breach.
*****
I returned to the library hours later. Elena looked tired, a single stray hair falling across her aristocratic features.
“The world is moving faster than your court dates, Elena,” I said, walking toward her.
She stood, smoothed her dress, and met my gaze. “I know. I heard the cars arriving. Your family’s arrival may just be for their funeral, you know that, right?”
“There would be no funeral. At least, not on our side,” I said, stopping just inches from her.
The verbal sparring was familiar, a comfortable mask for the tension that crackled between us.
“Hm.”
“Have you had lunch?”
“Yes,” she answered before adding, “It’s weird when you ask these questions. Don't bother.”
“Why? Because it makes you feel cared for? Or it makes your heart beat faster?”
I leaned in. “Answer me,” I pressed, my voice dropping to a low, rough whisper.
“Of course not,” she answered casually, chuckling.
“How about this, then?” I inquired, cupping the side of her face with my hand. “Does it feel weird?”
“Because it feels so fucking good to me. Makes me think of how soft your skin felt beneath my fingers that night.”
She heaved a shaky sigh.
“Damian,” she whispered, her tone somewhere between a plea and a warning.
I leaned down, our breaths mingling, the heat between us a living thing. Then I kissed her—a slow, deep claim that tasted of desperation and power.
The kiss was slow and intimate, our tongues dancing to the melody of our heartbeats.
And then, just as her hands moved to grip my lapels, I pulled back.
